Stinkbugs and beetles, no shoes on their feet, crawl over silver polished ground, their own deep frozen world seeking out warm shelter. They don’t mourn the death of our flowers and crops. Our loss is their wake. “To every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven.” Eccl. 3:1
Frosty sliced apples
Under warm nutmeg syrup
A seasons blending
Haibun Monday at dVesepoetspub.com – prompt is first frost
May take A break for a while, prayers needed, thank you.